Locard's Principle
by cinnamon badge
Summary: [DracoGinny] Second place in Pud's Great Draco & Ginny Contest 2007. When two objects come into direct contact with one another, there is always an exchange.


**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is not mine, but I'll take Draco. ;-)

**Locard's Principle**

Draco Malfoy was a businessman, first and foremost, of the highest caliber. He knew that he was capable of offering his clients a service that few others could, or would, and it was this desirability, and the demand of consumers, that had made him successful beyond all measure. Not a single one of his clients had complained or noticed faults in his work, and Draco knew they never would. He prided himself on the quality of the service he provided.

But it wasn't the kind of business one took out a page in the _Prophet_ for. No, Draco depended on word of mouth, the hushed whispers that circulated in the Wizarding community like smoke, and after each job was done, he simply waited. He waited for them to come to him. They always did.

His last job had been difficult -- he would admit that much to himself, and he carefully hid the curse burn that would prove it. Death Eaters had stolen priceless valuables and family heirlooms from an elderly halfblood witch living alone in Kent, claiming that they were needed for the Glorious Cause. "Glorious my arse," she had snapped, when Draco answered her summons. "Those jewels and goblets are mine, and they've been in the family for centuries."

"I'll need detailed descriptions of the pieces, the exact number, and the names of the wizards who took them," Draco said calmly.

"How long do you anticipate this taking?" she asked curiously, as her house elf happily complied.

"No more than a few days," he replied.

He had all of her missing valuables back to her in thirty-six hours. The witch paid him his fee, and he never saw her again.

Draco deposited the money he received for his jobs in his bank account at Gringotts, the one his father didn't know about. It was one of the few times he was glad of their unbiased love of money, and the way they guarded it like jealous lovers, for he was always treated with the utmost respect each time he entered bearing another bulging sack of gold. The way they simpered and groveled gave the whole procedure of depositing the Galleons a slimy feel, but money was money. He could and would still spend it.

Not days after he finished the job for the witch in Kent, Draco received a message carried by a snow-pure owl, unmarred by any distinguishing markings. He thought the bird looked familiar, so he hesitated. He did not do more than one job for the same client. But it nipped gently at his finger, and he took the letter against his better judgment. Before he could offer the owl a treat, it had gone on a weak breath of wind.

He did not recognize the handwriting, but he knew well the name signed at the bottom.

_Malfoy:_

_I'm putting aside my prejudices in this, and I hope you can too, just for the duration. We've heard rumors of your talents. If you're as good as they say you are, we want you to steal something back for us from the Death Eaters. The sooner the better._

_Come to the statue of Peter Pan in Hyde Park at 21.00 on Saturday._

_I can pay you twice your usual fee if you'll do this for me._

_Potter_

Part of him -- the part that was still an immature schoolboy with a massive chip on his shoulder -- wanted to laugh bitterly and toss the letter into his fireplace, and watch in delight as the missive burned. What joy he could extract from rejecting the bloody Boy Who Lived, turning up his nose at one of the only people that had never stood down from him. Let him feel helplessness for once, the wild axis-tilt that was a whole world standing on end. Let him find out how the other half lived.

Draco knew he would accept the job anyway. He had a reputation to maintain, and idleness did not suit him.

It was without an ounce of humility or superiority, then, that he promptly Apparated to Hyde Park and made his way to the statue for the appointed time. The air stank of death, rape, and torture, as it usually did these days, permeating the trees and the ground with a sickly-sweet perfume. Draco wished he didn't know what death, rape, and torture smelled like, but such wishes were wasted.

Potter was already there at Peter Pan's feet, hunched over in the cold wind that swept by. His cloak was more than a little threadbare now, his face thinner. "You came," he said. He sounded surprised, almost.

"You promised me twice my fee," Draco said, sneering, "and I am but a heartless cutpurse, am I not?"

Potter scowled and looked away. "I did," he muttered, "but it wasn't my idea."

"Can we go somewhere not so open?" Draco said, eyeing the dark trees around them. It was the height of foolishness to make mysterious rendezvous late at night, and he would not let Potter's imbecility get him killed.

"Of course." Potter grabbed Draco's arm, and before Draco could throw him off they had Apparated to another park, south of where they had been but still in London. Draco followed him when he started walking, towards a long row of townhouses that had once been fine, magnificent perhaps, but had now fallen into disrepair and neglect.

"Here." Potter shoved a grimy slip of parchment into his hand, and Draco read it, wondering why he needed to read about the Order Headquarters instead of actually going there. "If you tell anyone where this is," Potter said dully, taking back the parchment, "Moody has promised to slit your throat and enjoy it."

"I'm shaking in my boots," Draco said dryly, just as another house popped into the row before them. Potter led the way inside.

They were greeted in the gloomy foyer by a thin, lightless woman with mousy brown hair. "This is him, then?" she said, frowning.

"You promised you would be nice, Tonks," Potter said, apparently attempting humor now. "I know you don't like him --"

"That's the understatement of the millennium," she muttered, turning away.

"Lovely to meet you as well, cousin," Draco said with a smirk. Tonks gestured rudely and disappeared down a narrow staircase. Potter went after her.

Draco tried not to show surprise when they descended into an earthy basement kitchen, for he was fairly certain that the whole of the Order was now assembled here, seated at the table with cups of tea or standing about the perimeter of the room, heads bowed in quiet discussion. All noise ceased the moment he entered.

"Malfoy," one of the twins growled. Both of them ominously cracked their knuckles.

The plump witch in the corner -- probably the Mother Weasel, by the color of her hair -- burst into tears on cue. "How can we trust him?" she cried, leaning into the red-haired man beside her. "We don't know his allegiances --"

"I'm not a Death Eater, if that's what you're thinking," Draco drawled, studying his fingernails. "The Dark Lord wants my head on a stake and my heart on a plate."

"But to trust him with --"

"Molly." Draco's Defense professor, the werewolf one, patted her hand. "We need him." He looked up at Draco from his seat at the long trestle table and offered him a weak, unconvincing smile. "We have a job for you, Mr. Malfoy."

"Well," Draco said, folding his arms in front of his chest. "And here I thought I'd been invited for tea."

"We've heard that you specialize in -- er, returning items that the Death Eaters have taken," he went on delicately. "Gladys Gudgeon told us you were able to retrieve the entirety of her silver tea service without a scratch on it."

"They were Goblin made," Draco said, waving a hand carelessly. "I take no credit for that."

"Even so," the werewolf pressed, "you're able to infiltrate their camps without being caught? Each time?"

Draco nodded curtly, and the whole room sighed in relief. "I'm going to assume you lot are missing some valuables," he said, cutting to the chase, "so I'll need a detailed list of all items stolen, including --"

"It's only the one thing," Potter said. For the first time that evening, he looked defeated, upset. _He's close to tears_, Draco thought amusedly. "Just one."

The Mother Weasel sobbed even harder.

"Well, get on with it," Draco snapped. "I'm a busy man."

Potter met his eyes steadily. "They took Ginny," he murmured. "We want her back."

Draco snorted. "I steal objects, Potter," he sneered, "and last time I checked, the Girl Weasel was still human."

"Hence the doubling of your fee," the werewolf interjected. "We know it's an unusual request --"

"Unusual? Try undoable," Draco growled. "I'm a thief, not a bloody knight in shining armor."

"We've already arranged for someone to assist you," a tall black wizard said, his deep voice deadly serious. Draco eyed him warily and made sure his wand was within reach. "Severus Snape is in the Death Eater camp where she is being held. He will help you get her back to us."

"I don't need any help," Draco declared, bristling at the suggestion that he did.

"Then you'll do it?" Potter said hopefully.

Draco scowled at them all for good measure, but the wheels in his head had already begun turning. Stealing teapots and Auntie Mildred's jewelry had truthfully become a bore, and he lunged at the chance to challenge himself. Twice his fee would put him ever closer to his target amount, too, the amount with which he could leave the country and hole up comfortably somewhere on the Continent until someone won this sodding war.

Freedom. It was close enough to taste.

"I'll do it," Draco announced.

He hoped he wouldn't live to regret this.

* * *

They became friends seemingly overnight, for reasons he couldn't explain or even discern. What he did know was that the youngest Weasley, the girl, had entered the toilet one day while he was quietly sobbing at the sink. He had been alone with his misery and Moaning Myrtle, and then comfort had arrived in the form of two solid, real arms encircling his waist.

He jumped away from her, scrubbing the tears from his face. "Get away from me," he hissed, furious that she had found him like this. "I'll hex you."

"Why are you crying?" she asked. She actually looked like she cared. Not even Myrtle had been able to fake that.

"It's none of your business," he snapped, and, casting a Glamour Charm over his red eyes, he stormed out of the bathroom and went to class.

But, as he soon found out, once someone had attracted Ginny Weasley's attention, they seldom left it. Following their incident in the loo, she started giving him random smiles at meals, as they passed each other in the corridor, as they went down to the stadium for Quidditch games. One morning a tiny school owl brought him an unmarked box of chocolates from Honeydukes -- not nearly the high-quality sweets he was used to. He was so depressed one night that he ate them anyway.

It drove him over the edge, not knowing just what she was up to. And finally, he broke and approached her, as they both sat studying in the library alone.

"What's your game, hm?" he said. "What are you trying to do?"

She looked up at him easily, as though his glare didn't affect her. "When I heard you crying that day," she said, "I knew it was for something real. Not for bad marks or cruel words, but something important, and devastating. Listening to it made want to ease some of your pain."

He didn't know what to say to that. So he said nothing.

The next time Draco went to the library to study, to try and find some way of getting Death Eaters past the innumerable wards that surrounded Hogwarts, she was there. He sat with her.

* * *

There were few Death Eater camps, but most of the things he had stolen had come from the same one: a ragtag group of the lowest rung of the Dark Lord's followers, stationed near Loch Ness. They amused themselves by throwing food scraps to the monster that lived in its depths. Nessie, they affectionately called her. A boon, Draco called her -- he had been able to steal countless items from under the Death Eaters' noses while they were stupidly captivated by Nessie's antics.

But Ginny was not with them. She was in the camp near Little Hangleton: the camp where the Dark Lord himself lived.

He Apparated miles away, where the sharp sound of his Apparition and the presence of his magic would not be detected. Somewhere near here had once stood the house of Gaunt, his distant relatives -- mad, the lot of them, his father had always muttered in private. Nothing but rubble lay there now, and the trees that had once surrounded it now met in the middle, hiding the site from prying eyes.

The smell of burning filled the night air, likely emanating from the faint lightness he saw to the north. That way lay the Riddle mansion, Potter had said, the home of the Dark Lord's Muggle father. Instead of being repulsed by it the Dark Lord had embraced the empty manor, and had made it his base. He had killed his grandparents and father there. He had come back into his physicality in the graveyard nearby. _What happy memories he's made in this place,_ Draco thought wryly.

He cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and threw his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders for extra protection, before starting down the winding, faint trail that led from the Most Noble House of Gaunt, down to where Little Hangleton lay nestled in the dales. The Riddle mansion cut a sharp, black silhouette against the starry night sky. Now he could see the bonfire beside it, hear the ecstatic cries and cheers of Death Eaters that made his stomach twist in disgust.

One of the revelers was most certainly his father.

Down in the village itself, not a single lamp shone from the windows, though his keen ears heard slight, nervous sounds. The Muggles here had not gone. They lived in fear, fear of the unknown, and of whatever demonic thing lived above them on the hill, where the old Riddle mansion stood. Draco paid them no heed, for to do so would only create complications, and he had enough of those. He went on, walking down the middle of the deserted streets, no more substantial to the naked eye than a beam of moonlight, or a stale puff of air.

They were dancing. The Death Eaters were dancing. Their awkward feet carried them in odd patterns, weaving in and out of each other drunkenly, their ebullient movements inspired by that heady mistress, Victory. The charred remains of something vaguely human-shaped burned at the middle of the bonfire, and suddenly Draco knew what that awful smell was. For one cold moment he thought he had found the youngest Weasley, but on closer inspection, he realized the figure was too tall.

Someone else, then. He looked away.

"Long live the Dark Lord!" a Death Eater cried, raising a tankard. The cheer was echoed throughout the area, each time more enthusiastic than the last.

Draco crept along the outskirts of the camp, biding his time. He passed in silence Avery and Lestrange, who were making lewd comments about someone not present.

"Did you see the curves on 'er?" Avery leered, licking his lips. "Merlin's beard, I'd love to take a bite out of that."

"They're better when they're innocent, aren't they?" Lestrange agreed. Draco was tempted to kick his dear old uncle, but fought the urge. "So pure and virginal, and they fight back so courageously." They both cackled, and the sound sent a shudder down Draco's spine.

When he had passed beyond the bonfire and Death Eaters, he attempted to step towards the cluster of tents and found an invisible barrier in his way. He sneered at the light shimmer he saw ripple away from his touch. He had encountered a similar barrier at the camp near Loch Ness, and it was ridiculously simple to get past. The Dark Lord had allowed his past successes to go to his head, it seemed, and Draco would be forever grateful for this tiniest of flaws in the Dark Lord's so-called uncrackable defenses.

Draco pushed up his sleeve and bared his Dark Mark to the ward. It melted before him, and he entered freely.

He encountered more Death Eaters, coming out of their tents to join the revelry. "Gryffindors are always best," he heard one of them say. He thought it sounded like MacNair. "Slytherin women won't stop until you're wound right around their little finger, but Gryffindor women are always welcoming when they think you love them."

"You know we can't touch her," the other grumbled. Yaxley, undoubtedly, the bastard. "Not unless you want your bits blasted off by the Dark Lord."

"Reckon I'll be reacquainting myself with my right hand, then," MacNair said, scowling. Draco frowned at their crassness. There was little doubt in his mind now who they were talking about.

Tentatively, he reached out and tried to sense the Dark Lord's power, not trusting the report Potter had given him that the Dark Lord would be somewhere else that night. But sure enough, he could not sense the massive bonfire that was the Dark Lord's magic. Draco was safe. He would grudgingly admit that he was indebted to Snape for this perfect coincidence and opportunity.

They had not told him where she would be, but he found the place anyway. It was the tent that no one dared approach, the one set slightly back from the others. An aura of pain and despair and darkness surrounded it, seeping into Draco's invisible skin like a toxic smog. A vile taste came to the back of his throat when he swallowed. The Order had said nothing of this.

Before he could work out how to enter undetected, Snape appeared at the tent flap. "I was expecting you an hour ago," he muttered, and Draco ducked inside.

"How did you know where I was?" he whispered.

"I can sense your presence," Snape said shortly, letting the flap fall once more. "Ever since I made the Unbreakable Vow with your mother --"

"Right," Draco said, and he removed the Cloak and Disillusionment Charm. "I'm here to get the Weaselette and leave. Where is she?"

Snape peered at him carefully for several moments. Another drunken cheer for the Dark Lord raised outside. "You cannot just leave with her," he said. "The Order obviously did not tell you about her condition. Didn't tell you or didn't want to believe me," he muttered, more to himself.

"What, has she been raped?" Draco asked blandly. "Tortured? I've lived through this war too, you know. I'm not innocent anymore either."

"Follow me," Snape commanded, and he led Draco beyond a thin drape into the latter half of the tent. Draco rubbed suddenly clammy palms together, wondering what he was about to see.

He could not have prepared himself for it. There, on understuffed cushions and dirty straw, lay the Weasley girl, her skin pale and clinging to her bones. She wore the tattered rags of her school uniform, her feet bare, her hair a rusty nimbus about her face. Only the whites of her eyes were visible. She rocked back and forth in a chillingly vacant manner, like a being bewitched. Like a victim of a Dementor's Kiss.

"You remember when the Chamber was opened at Hogwarts ten years ago," Snape said quietly, as Draco tried and failed to tear his eyes from her. "The Dark Lord possessed her to unleash the basilisk, and then began sapping her energy in order to enter the physical realm once again. Potter barely managed to destroy the diary before the Dark Lord had finished." He snorted. "And we all thought little Ginny Weasley was safe again."

Draco swallowed uneasily. He extended a hand towards her restless shape, and was frozen by the chill emanating from her.

"Potter has destroyed all of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes," Snape went on. "He thinks the Dark Lord is not aware of this, but Draco, he is. He knows he is now at his most vulnerable, and that he must strike first if he is to choose the setting of the final battle to his advantage." He gestured to Ginny. "So he has bought himself some insurance."

"Insurance?" The word felt strange in Draco's mouth. He managed somehow to look at Snape. "What kind of insurance?"

"A fragment of the Dark Lord's soul was still trapped within her body," Snape said softly. "It has been there all this time, dormant, but he was aware of its presence. I do not know exactly what he has done, for the spell is ancient -- Dumbledore would have known," Snape said bitterly, staring at her. "But the result is a simple one. Should Potter kill the Dark Lord in his current form, her body will willingly host his soul -- what is left of it -- and he will yet endure within her."

Draco shuddered at the thought of being possessed so wholly, so utterly without freedom or free will. It was not a fate he would wish on anyone, not even the Weasley girl.

She shook abruptly, and her spine arched skyward, her arms spread to either side. "Move away," Snape ordered, pulling on Draco's shoulder. When she lay back, he could see her brown eyes blinking up at him, lost.

"Cold," she rasped, "I'm so cold --"

"Save your strength, Miss Weasley," Snape soothed.

"I'm going to be saved, aren't I, Professor?" she whimpered, fingers clawing at the ground. "I'll see Mum and Dad again --"

"Yes, your entire family and the Order."

"And he won't be able to get me anymore."

"No, he won't."

Draco fought against Snape's hand. "Weasley --" But before he could go to her, her back had jolted once again, and her eyes rolled up. She resumed her listless rocking.

"She is in a trance most of the time, because of the Dark Lord's curse," Snape explained, as Draco stared at her. "He needs her pliant if he is to inhabit her in the event of his death. But she is a strong witch, and can occasionally break through it. Not often, however, and in increasingly shorter increments. Her will is failing."

Draco straightened, though his eyes never left her. "How am I to bring her back to London?" he asked. He felt oddly detached from everything else going on around him.

"The Dark Lord is becoming careless," Snape said. "He has lost his Horcruxes, but the Order has been decimated, and he believes victory is only around the corner. I convinced him that he did not need any further protection around her save myself."

"He will suspect you if I make off with her," Draco said.

Snape sneered at him. "You think I have not thought of that? I am an accomplished Occlumens. The Dark Lord will not learn anything I do not want him to."

"So I can just take her out of the camp? No wards will stop me?"

"She will have to be Silenced, for the rare moments she breaks from her trance," Snape said, wiping beads of sweat from her brow with a clean bit of cloth. "She cannot be Apparated or Flooed, her body is too weak, and she cannot support her own weight. You must make sure she eats and drinks whenever she can, and either carry or levitate her."

"All the way to London?" Draco said, incredulous. "That's hundreds of miles of _walking _--"

"Your mother taught you how to make Portkeys," Snape bit off, frowning at him. "Get as far as you can and make one, but do not go directly to London. Should the Dark Lord set off after you, you need to make sure your tracks are untraceable." He turned towards the tent flap, eyes narrowing. "You must go now. Quickly."

Draco pulled out his wand and cast a Featherweight Charm on her, and Disillusionment Charms on both of them. He scooped her weightless body into his arms and stood still while Snape draped the enlarged Invisibility Cloak over them. "Sleep during the day," he muttered, "travel at night. Stay away from the main roads and settlements, only make contact with people when you need food. Do not agitate or anger her in any way, or the piece of the Dark Lord within her may lash out, and he will be able to find her again." He gripped Draco's forearms tightly, to gain his attention. "I will have to sound the alarm in an hour's time to escape suspicion. Do not stop to rest until tomorrow afternoon."

"How will they heal her?" Draco blurted, curious.

Snape's features sank briefly, before returning to their imperturbable set. "They can't."

He opened the back flap of the tent, and Draco escaped into the night.

* * *

"How do you carry that around with you?" Ginny asked him, one lazy afternoon. They sat in the library carelessly, ties loosened, feet up on the table. "How do you live with the sadness?"

"Easy," he said, shrugging. "I just shove it to the side until I want to think about it."

She shook her head. "I can't imagine being able to do that," she said in awe. "To be able to -- to separate emotions like that."

"It's out of necessity," he said. The lamplight shining on her hair caught his attention for a moment. "If I didn't, I'd be like you said, weighted down by everything all of the time."

She tilted her head to one side, considering him. "You do it because you have to, then."

"Yes, I have to."

"Do you always just do things because you think you have to?"

Draco scowled. "Because I _think_ I have to? I don't _think_ I have to do anything. I'm presented with a choice each time a problem reveals itself. I either fix it or let it go, after carefully weighing the options and consequences."

Ginny chuckled and shook her head. "Spoken like a true Slytherin," she said, grinning.

"Well, how do you make decisions then, O Wise and Mighty Gryffindor?" he spat testily.

"Easy," she said. "I follow my instincts and morals."

"So if you were told to kill someone," he said slowly, "and also told that if you didn't kill them that your whole family would die -- what would you do?"

"I would help them to safety," she said. Absolute conviction shone in her eyes and almost blinded him. "I would make sure my family was safe, and I would protect the person I was told to kill."

"Ah," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "That's where we differ."

She grinned again. "But even East eventually meets West," she said cryptically.

Draco rolled his eyes and went back to sucking on a Sugar Quill.

* * *

He talked to her as he walked, her limp form floating in front of him. Several Shield Charms surrounded them, so his voice carried no farther than her ears and his own, but he still spoke in low, muted tones. He wanted to believe that even when she was in the depths of her dark trance, she could hear him. Draco spoke of N.E.W.T.s, which neither of them had taken, and how many O.W.L.s he had received -- eleven -- and how he missed playing Quidditch. "You played Chaser, didn't you?" he asked her. He received no response. "I saw you play a few times. You actually managed to shoot for the hoops." He sneered, as if she had said something back. "That's the highest praise a Malfoy can give a Weasley, you know. Be happy with what crumbs I so mercifully offer you."

His mood changed completely the few times she broke from the trance. The first time was at dawn, their second night out from Little Hangleton, just as he was about to stop to sleep. Her brown eyes came back, and looked at him imploringly. Her mouth moved without words until he removed the Silencing Charm.

"Where are we going?" she whispered.

"Home, Ginny," he said, tipping her head back and having her drink some water. "I'm taking you home."

"Just you?"

A small smirk danced about his lips. "What, you don't trust in my magical abilities? For all you know, I fought off thirty vicious Death Eaters to get you away from that camp."

She smiled up at him, and it was beautiful. Her dirty, nail-bitten hand brushed against his face. He felt his heart quicken. "I trust you, Draco," she murmured. "You'll save me."

"I'm trying to," he said, but she had already relapsed again.

He rested his head on her shoulder when he slept, his arms wrapped protectively about her waist. The weight of his body kept hers from moving. He could almost pretend, in those moments, that they were not sleeping on the hard ground, but in his bed back at Hogwarts, the one draped in Slytherin green and silver. Draco imagined once that she was conscious, running her hands through his fine blond hair, but when he woke at twilight she was rocking back and forth, deep within the Dark Lord's grip.

* * *

"You're so _nice_," he said in wonder. "All of the time, too. _Why_?"

She laughed, and the sound warmed him thoroughly. "You sound as though I walk around on my hands or something. What's wrong with being nice?"

"I never said there was anything wrong with it. It works wonders when you're trying to get someone to do something for you --"

"There you are," she said, sitting upright. They were sprawled on his bed in the Slytherin boys' dorm, while everyone else was in Hogsmeade. "You never do anything unless you can gain something from it, right?"

"What's the point otherwise?" he drawled.

She rolled her eyes and stole one of his chocolates. It melted a bit on her hot skin and left dark brown smudges on the tips of her fingers, which she promptly licked off. Draco wondered at the dropping sensation in his stomach. "You don't need an excuse to just be nice," she said. "Try it. Say something nice to me for no reason at all."

"What do I get out of it?" he asked. He hoped she would say a kiss, or maybe something more.

"I won't hex you, that's what you get out of it."

"Fine." He studied her closely, from her stocking feet -- one sock had a hole in it through which her big toe poked out -- to the top of her head -- her hair was an absolute mess after their impromptu broom race around the Quidditch pitch. Her jeans had hiked up slightly, exposing a short stretch of smooth, white skin on her leg, and her ratty Harpies T-shirt was a bit too tight around her chest. She looked...

"You're not ugly," he declared.

"Wow, don't strain yourself, Draco."

* * *

Something went wrong on the third night, just as he was about to resume traveling. Ginny's eyes glowed a horrible red color when he went to pick her up, and her teeth bared in a demonic smile.

"Run, little Malfoy," she ground out, howling with deep, throaty laughter. He jumped back in surprise. "Run as fast as you can, and I will still find you."

Draco did not hesitate for a moment. He grabbed the first thing he saw -- a loose rock lying on the ground -- and turned it into a Portkey. Seconds later, they were in Ireland, and Ginny sank back into her trance.

"Are we almost there?" she asked him, the next time she awoke. She obediently ate the pieces of bread and dried fruit he fed her.

"Nearly," he lied. "A few more days."

"Good," she breathed. "I can't wait to see Mum and Dad again."

"Am I such poor company?" he asked, the second or third time she said this.

She stopped, taken aback. "No, Draco," she whispered. "I can't imagine anyone else I would rather be with."

"Good," he said, recovering. "Because you're stuck with me."

"I'm glad," she said, smiling a little. "You'll know when to do what you have to."

Draco's heart flipped over at that, not wanting to understand what she was saying. But he did.

He just wouldn't listen to her and he would do as he had been hired to do.

* * *

"Do you love anyone?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Is this the part where I tell you about my crush on Viktor Krum and we sigh over his biceps?"

Ginny giggled helplessly, rolling around on the floor of the Slytherin common room. "Draco!" she cried. "I didn't know you swung that way!"

"I'm only trying to play along with whatever ridiculous game you've started."

"No." She sat up, resting her chin on his knee. "I meant if you've felt anything towards anyone. I mean, you've told me how basically heartless you can be --"

Draco smirked. "Oi, I resemble that remark."

"So do you? Feel anything towards anyone but yourself?"

He waited a long time to answer that dangerous, loaded question. He contemplated telling her the truth -- how heartless he had tried to be to her, how his breath caught in his throat every time he saw her, how he had made a mental list of things that made her laugh, so that he would always remember how. But Slytherins didn't tell the truth. Not that kind of truth, anyway.

"My parents," he said coolly. "I have great respect for my father, and I admire my mother."

"I love my parents," she said, smiling a little and looking far away. She idly twirled a lock of her hair round her index finger. "I know that I can always go to my mum for anything, no matter how small, and she'll listen. And I know that whenever I need advice I can always go to my dad, and he'll have some bit of wisdom for me." She hugged her knees to her chest. "I miss them when I'm at school."

He slid off of the couch to sit beside her, and watched her until her eyes met his. "I don't feel anything for anyone," he said, "because no one has ever felt anything for me."

"That's not true," she insisted, her eyes bright. "It can't be."

"How do you know?"

"Because _I _feel something for you," she said, cupping his cheek. "I care about you."

She leaned in then, her flowery scent overwhelming him, and kissed him. Once the shock had worn off, he kissed her back.

* * *

But it happened again. The Dark Lord found them, somehow or another, and spoke through Ginny's soft lips with a voice that scared Draco to death, and they Portkeyed a second time, to Cornwall.

"He knows where I am," Ginny sobbed, clinging to Draco. "I can feel him inside of me."

"I'm doing everything I can," he said. "I'm trying, Ginny --"

"He won't ever give me up. He'll kill you."

"No he won't," he swore, "he won't, he won't --"

"Are we almost home, Draco?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.

He turned away. "Just a few more days, Ginny. A few more days and you can sleep in your own bed again."

"You shouldn't wait any longer," she said, shaking her head. "You know what you need to do."

Draco performed his first act of not listening to her.

He stopped resting during the day, and instead traveled twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight hours straight, Ginny's weightless figure in his arms or floating before him. He didn't know what kept him going, for surely the promise of double his customary fee had ceased to be important days ago, but keep going he did. His eyes felt as though they had been permanently propped open, and he no longer had any sense of attachment to his arms and legs. All he saw was Ginny, her eyes white and unseeing, and he went on.

He was not a hero. He had never wanted to be. Being a hero meant accolades, standing in the spotlight, being expected to make speeches and perform miracles and, even worse, continue doing heroic acts. Draco was not cut out for such work, and he did not care that he wasn't. All he needed to be happy was enough money in the bank, pleasant weather, and peace and quiet. He could get that in Italy, or Spain. Not here. So he would leave, and he would never have to worry about these things for the rest of his life.

Each time he had convinced himself of this, Ginny awoke and just looked at him, and then maybe being a hero wasn't all that bad after all.

* * *

Draco had not had the time to worry about girls and getting off or getting laid when he had had more pressing concerns -- like staying alive, and saving his mother. And Ginny had only just started dating boys a year before, and none of them had made her want to go all the way, she told him. They would be each other's first if they went that far, a thought that had at first made him roll his eyes at the sappiness.

"Merlin's beard," he moaned dramatically, once they had established that they were both virgins, "I've become a romance novel hero, haven't I? Shall I grow out my hair and start wearing my shirts unbuttoned to the navel?"

She laughed and snuggled closer to him. "Nah," she said. "Romance novel heroes usually have bigger biceps."

It happened during another Hogsmeade weekend. She had run into his dormitory with a bright smile on her face, her hair tumbling in soft waves down her back, and he simply hadn't been able to keep away from her. She drew him with her personality and love and spirit like a magnet drew iron fillings, and he lacked the will to resist her pull. He went to her and held her face in his hands, as she smiled up at him, and kissed her with everything he could give her and even everything he couldn't.

They ended up leaning against one of the posts of his bed before he came up for air again. He pressed kisses to the corner of her mouth, the fullness of her cheek, the soft spot under her ear, before stopping with his face at the curve of her throat, overcome.

"More," she whispered, clinging to him. "I want more, Draco."

Then they had been on his bed, hovering over each other tentatively. "Don't think about it," she said, brushing his hair off his forehead. "Let it happen."

"I have to hurt you," he said.

"I know." She smiled bravely up at him. "I'm ready."

Draco moved slowly, cursing his lack of experience. He wanted this to be perfect for her, something worth remembering when she thought of them in the future, but he couldn't keep his hands from shaking as he unbuttoned her blouse, and ran his palm over the flat, creamy expanse of her stomach. He pressed kisses to each bit of undiscovered skin he exposed, nipping gently with his teeth and laving the bites with his tongue. He loved the way her skin tasted, so sweet and slightly salty, and how her breasts fit perfectly in his hands, and how she arched her back into him when he put his mouth around her strawberry nipples.

He loved too the way she unbuttoned his shirt, kissing her way down his chest until she reached the nearly invisible trail that led down beyond the waistband of his trousers. Now it was her turn for her hands to shake, and he felt them as she undid the clasp and pulled down his zipper. "If you don't want to," he murmured, not finishing his thought. He kissed her throat and the valley between her breasts, a place he had now claimed as his alone, and she shook her head.

Once they were free, free of all restrictions and clothes, and he couldn't believe how good her skin felt against his, he tried remembering what he had heard Blaise Zabini tell some wide-eyed fourth year, back when he didn't care that a fourth year was getting some and he wasn't. Draco slid one long white finger inside her experimentally, and watched in amazement as she moaned and writhed at his touch. "Sweet Merlin," she hissed, surging towards him. "Draco -- God, please -- please --"

He kissed her again, swallowing her breathless words, and studied what made her react and what didn't, more carefully than he had ever studied for a class. If he curled his finger, a low moan came from the back of her throat. When he added another, her fingers dug into his back, likely leaving eight red crescents on his flawless skin.

"More," she said, kissing him everywhere -- his jaw, his ear, his collarbone. "I need you. I want you, Draco."

He did it with one quick thrust, knowing it would hurt but not how much -- he hated seeing the tears leak from the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her skin, kissing the saltwater away -- him, the boy who had never apologized for anything. "I'm sorry."

"Keep going," she said, managing a smile. "I -- I think if you move, it won't hurt as much."

So he had, slowly at first, trying to maintain control of himself, but it was a lost cause. She felt so unbelievably good, under him, all around him, welcoming him and everything he was deep within her. He had simply never felt this way before, so eager for the connection between them. He hadn't known it was possible to want, to _need_ someone with such desperation that it took his breath away. She took one of his hands in hers and kissed it, and then placed it where their bodies were joined. "Draco," she said, her eyelashes fluttering shut. "Feel how we're together."

He couldn't last much longer than that. He let his orgasm crash through him, burning away his protective walls, and he shuddered at the sheer force of everything, and the feel of her body climaxing around him, and it was simply too much for him to bear all at once.

* * *

The human body can overcome great obstacles and physical limitations in times of need. But such superhuman ability is finite, like everything else, and eventually will run out.

Draco collapsed on the third day out from Cornwall. He didn't know where they were, he didn't know where the Dark Lord was, he didn't remember where they were even headed. He lay heaving on the ground forever, maybe minutes or weeks, while Ginny shook beside him, and the sun set in a nest of blue violet.

Night came quietly. He had fallen near a stream, so he dragged Ginny with strengthless arms towards it and gulped down the cool water. His cracked lips stung painfully.

"Are we almost there?" Ginny's voice broke through the confused mess of his thoughts.

"Nearly, love," he whispered hoarsely. "Nearly."

A pause. "Don't lie to me, Draco."

He sat upright at that, and looked over at her. She gazed back steadily. "You're killing yourself over this," she said.

"I'm fine," he insisted, but she smiled weakly at him.

"If you're fine, I'm Prime Minister," she said. "Draco, you need to stop."

"All right, I'll tell you the truth," he snapped, the fine thread on his self-control breaking. "I have no _fucking_ clue where we are. Three days ago it was Cornwall, but we might be in Wiltshire now. London is days away, I haven't eaten in almost a week, neither have you, and the Death Eaters are still on our tail."

She looked up at the sky above them, which was filled with more stars than Draco had ever seen before. "I don't know what he's done to me," she whispered. Tears came to her eyes. "Professor Snape told me that he didn't know how to reverse it."

Draco swallowed. He willed himself not to look at her.

Ginny turned towards him again and tried to sit up, but fell limply back onto the ground. "You know what you have to do, Draco," she said, a breathy sob escaping her lips.

He shook his head, back and forth, over and over. "No, Ginny. I refuse." He hated the way his voice broke.

"You have to. I'm giving you permission."

"No."

For a split second her spine seized and her eyes rolled, but Draco watched her fight back her black trance with more energy than he'd thought she had. "It's my choice to make," she managed, "and I've made it. It's the only way."

He crawled over to where she lay, her hair spread on the ground around her face. She was beautiful, bathed in the moonlight. An ivory goddess. "Don't give me your -- your idiotic Gryffindor bravery bollocks," he said, glaring at her. "We're getting back up, and we're going to London --"

"Stop it, Draco."

"What's wrong with you?" he roared, clutching her shoulders. "Don't you want to get married? Have babies? Grow old and live for years and years --"

"Of course I do!" she cried. "More than anything, Draco, you have no idea --"

"Then stop talking like --"

"You said once," she gasped, wincing in pain. "You told me you believed in doing what you had to."

He knew what he had said. He regretted it now. "I lied, Ginny."

"We all have to do things we don't want to," she said, tears blooming in her lovely eyes. "You told me that. I didn't agree then but I understand now. Do this for me, Draco. There's nothing else you can do."

"There is," he said, despairingly. "I'll get us to London, to the Order --"

"It's irreversible."

"I won't."

"You will."

An anguished cry left his mouth, and for the first time in many years, his face crumpled. "I have to mean it, love," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't just say it, I have to really mean it."

"I know you will," she said, smiling. As if she knew she had already won. "I believe in you, Draco."

"Gin --"

"I trust you. I love you."

And just like that, he knew he would mean it. As much as he didn't want to, wanted to tell her that he wouldn't, he suddenly knew with certainty that he _could_. He could mean it, with every fiber of his being, every breath in his body, every beat of his heart.

With one hand he reached up and brushed the hair back from her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. "I love you, Draco," she sighed again.

With the other hand, he reached for his wand.

Draco kissed her lips, lingering there a moment, two.

He pressed his wand into her stomach. She did not flinch away.

This was for her. Everything, all of this -- for her.

"_Avada Kedavra_," he hissed.

Her body jerked one last time, and then lay still.

* * *

Draco held her in his arms for a long time afterwards -- just held her, and marveled at the feel of her heart beating in time against his.

"I love you, Ginny," he whispered into her damp hair. "I can't, and I shouldn't, but I do."

She was already fast asleep.

* * *

He did not linger in the woods by the stream. As soon as he was strong enough, he Apparated her back to London, back to the nondescript park by the embankment, and to the rotting townhouse that lay hidden between numbers eleven and thirteen.

"I arrived too late," he said tiredly, as they gathered around her body, stretched out on the kitchen table. "I assumed you would at least want to give her a decent burial."

The head of every Order member present bowed low, and more than one could not speak for the tears in their eyes and the sob stuck in their throat.

"Thank you, Malfoy," Potter murmured, stretching out to touch her smooth brow, her blue lips. "Thank you."

* * *

It only took Draco a few days to realize that despite everything, despite her, it was to no avail. He had things he had to do, and he couldn't let morals or compassion get in his way. It was simply the way his world worked.

She screamed at him when he told her what the Dark Lord wanted him to do, and sobbed when he removed the Glamour Charm hiding his Dark Mark.

"You didn't actually think this would change things?" he said. His sneer was forced.

"I thought it would," she wept.

"How absurd, Weasley," he scoffed. "A leopard cannot change his spots."

That night he had set his plan into motion, and Dumbledore had died. Dumbledore had died and so had Draco's hopes of ever being with her again.

* * *

If they noticed how his hands shook when he accepted his payment, or how he couldn't quite meet anyone's eyes, they did not say anything. Maybe they didn't see it.

He flung their blood money into the Thames.

They didn't see that either.


End file.
